


Rough Case?

by LouLor



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Sherlolly - Freeform, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:44:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2066883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouLor/pseuds/LouLor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the prompt: "Sherlock coming back from a rough case and Molly being there for him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rough Case?

**Author's Note:**

> Previously released on Tumblr, now have the slightly edit AO3 version now that I have an accout!

Everything was perfect, Molly was certain of that. 

After weeks away and an almost unbearable silence, the text had come; in a few hours Sherlock would be home.  Landing at Stansted at 18:35 (well, there abouts..) plus a maximum train journey time of 45 minutes into London Liverpool Street, then either a 30 minute cab drive to Baker Street or a 15 minute journey on the tube.  Though in all honesty Molly was only factoring that last option in case none of the cabs would take him.  However, today Molly didn’t mind, it gave her a bit longer to prepare.

Including the flight, that gave her three and half hours, more than enough time. 

Like a mad woman she had buzzed around the flat, dusting, vacuuming (much to Toby’s distaste) and all around cleaning - though naturally she was very careful not to disturb any of Sherlock specimens or the eyeballs in the salad drawer.  Once the carpets and surfaces passed her pathologist standards of clean, the rush was on for Molly to get to Tesco, determined to miraculously defy her inability and provide Sherlock with a wonderful welcome home meal.  And by ‘defy her inability’ that meant Molly planned, and succeeded in, buying one of those in store cooked chickens, both saving her the preparation time and, being the end of the day, was dirt cheap.  There was nothing more satisfying than something delicious that she didn’t have to cook and that satisfied her inner Womble.  She could give Toby the scraps if Sherlock didn’t eat much – which she considered unlikely since Sherlock was practically ravenous having finished a case.  It would be served with a nice Caesar salad, i.e. nothing Molly could ruin, and some pan fried potatoes.  Easy, delicious, and filling.  Then afterwards she and Sherlock would collapse onto the sofa, each nursing a full belly, and watch crap telly or a film, probably Bond or Star Wars, until Sherlock fell asleep where he sat.  Molly could then curl up against him and sleep there, tucked beneath a blanket and under his arm.  Her back would hate her in the morning for it, but there was something decidedly lovely about it.

Or Sherlock would ruin all her plans by bounding in and dragging her to bed the moment he stepped through the door.  Really it all depended on how exciting the case had been.

.

Molly’s first suspicion should have been raised when Sherlock wasn’t home on schedule.  For a man who could disappear without warning for days on end, Sherlock was fastidious when it came to his returns.  Naturally Molly put it down to the flight being delayed, or a slow train, or traffic on the roads, even a bad cab driver could slow you down.  So late was he that Molly had had time to clear up in the kitchen after her meagre amount of cooking.

However, when she heard his key rattle in the door a wave swept up the stairs before Sherlock had set a foot inside and Molly knew someone was wrong.  His footsteps on the stairs were slow and heavy, he had not called out to her at the door.  Perhaps Sherlock was just tired?  Fussing her hair in place Molly moved to the living room and stood facing the door, waiting for Sherlock to walk in.  As she caught sight of him Molly couldn’t help by gasp.

While Sherlock could never be accused of spending too much time in the sun, his usually milky complexion was ashen, verging on a sickly pale yellow.  He hadn’t slept in days.  It wasn’t his usual ‘sleeping slows me down’ manner either, he was exhausted and looked as though he were about to collapse or die on his feet.  Even though Molly had vowed never to be the ‘let me take your hat dear’ types, she dashed to Sherlock’s side, hands raised ready to peel off his coat for him.  Sherlock remained unmoving, his manner entirely numb and distant.

“I made dinner.” Molly murmured, doing her best to break the pregnant silence.  She’d only seen him like this once before and that was before the fall, that little moment in the lab… though even that wasn’t as awful as it was to stand here pinned under his unbearable stillness.  “It’s nothing special but-“ Molly was interrupted when a pair of bony, but surprisingly strong, arms wrapped firmly around her shoulders, one large violinist hand cradling the back of her skull. 

“Hey, what’s this?” Molly cooed, once out of her stupor, and wound her arms tightly around Sherlock under his coat, rubbing his back as though she were soothing a frightened child.  Sherlock dropped his head and buried his face against Molly’s shoulder, still silent as when he’d walked in the door.  However, the small shuddering in his chest betrayed anything he was trying to keep suppressed.  “We don’t have to have dinner.” She muttered, a little disappointed, quietly to Sherlock as he clung to her.  “Crap telly in bed, hm?”  At that Sherlock stood a little straighter, still reluctant to let Molly go, and shook his head (the motion barely disguising the glum pout).

“No,” His voice barely verged above a whisper, “You worked hard cooking.”  Sherlock knew that was entirely untrue, for a start the air didn’t smell like ‘cooking’ and secondly the flat wasn’t on fire.  Stepping back, Sherlock awkwardly disrobed himself of his coat and scarf before returning to Molly, looping one arm around her waist and leading the two to the kitchen.  He only broke the contact once more to move Molly’s plate from the opposite side of the table to directly next to his then sat down, pulling Molly on to his lap.  They ate in silence, nibbling on the meal; occasionally Molly would feed Sherlock a sliver of chicken then kiss his cheek.  The only one who benefited from this sombre scene was Toby who eagerly eyed the leftover meat.

Eventually, when the plates were cleared away and neither had an excuse to sit at the table any more, Sherlock and Molly followed the usual routine and retired to the sofa for an hour or two of ‘crap telly’.  Molly sat curled under Sherlock’s arm, her head on his shoulder with an arm wrapped around his waist, the both of them with the blanket tucked up to their chest.  There was a repeat of  _Top Gear_  blaring away on ‘Dave’.  Sherlock didn’t really like the programme, ‘shallow and childish’ were his usual comments; unless the presenters were on a ‘big adventure’ then he’d concede to watch it without complaint.  Tonight wasn’t one of those adventures but given his remoteness it was a comfort to Molly to hear Sherlock mumble an insult or two at Jeremy Clarkson and Richard Hammond.  In all honesty Molly wasn’t paying much attention to the television screen, how could she?  When the programme broke to an advert break, Molly turned her head and kissed Sherlock’s jaw.

“Do you want tea?”

“No.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“No.”

And so she settled back against Sherlock, content just to comfort him however she could with her closeness.  The episode came back and the episode concluded, all the while the couple said nothing.  Eventually Molly pried herself out from under Sherlock’s grip, yawning as she stood from the sofa.  Molly informing him that she was going to bed was met with a noncommittal grunt and then silence, his eyes fixed on the screen, probably watching the dust falling, for want of looking at her.

“Night then,” Molly mumbled as she shuffled away, a little stone of guilt sinking in her stomach for leaving Sherlock, though she didn’t expect she’d be alone for long.  Having changed, Molly crawled into bed and curled up on Sherlock’s side of the mattress, rather indulgently drowning in the smell of his pillow, however, she couldn’t sleep.  Partially for worry over Sherlock, and partially because the dents on his side of the bed were the wrong shape for her and in all the wrong places.  Reluctantly, Molly rolled over and occupied her space, then, perhaps an hour later, when she was on the very cusp of sleep, the bedroom door creaked open and Molly heard the pad of Sherlock’s steps as he got ready for bed.  She felt the mattress dip and Sherlock let out a rushed sigh of relief as his back relaxed.  More shuffling, and then a hand on her back, cool fingertips running up and down the line of her spine.

“I know you’re not asleep.” His voice rumbled out in the dark.  The hand on Molly’s back tripped down to the arc of her hip then coiled around her waist, tugging Molly back so she was nestled under the curve of Sherlock’s torso.

“I won’t tell you what happened,” Sherlock said, pressing a kiss to Molly’s shoulder.  “But promise me you’ll never leave?”

“I promise.” As if Molly would say anything else.  It baffled her that Sherlock would even suggest such a notion, wasn’t obvious she adored him?

“No matter what I do?”

Awkwardly Molly turned her head a little, enough just that she could bump the tip of her nose to his.  “Sherlock, we have brains in the freezer, regular raids by the police, and every so often you disappear.  I’m still here, aren’t I?”  The answer seemed to satisfy Sherlock and he nodded, then kissed and nuzzled her.  Finally he was something of his usual self.  With any luck Molly would get him to sleep the night through.

“Molly..”

“Hmm?”

“What do you think of bee-keeping?”


End file.
